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Crumb

Terry Zwigoff’s beautiful and risky documentary, from 1994, shows how the former underground cartoonist (and occasional New Yorker contributor) R. Crumb continued to ply his blasphemous, self-exposing craft long after an idiot smile settled over our official culture. The movie isn’t a testimonial or a valentine. It’s unpredictable and galvanizing: an empathetic portrait of the artist that also unveils a trenchant view of an American family’s dashed illusions. It’s also as darkly funny and energetic as any of Crumb’s creations. Pacing the film to the languid bounce of the old blues, jazz, and ragtime that sustain Crumb’s soul, the filmmaker slowly yet decisively draws the viewer into Crumb’s chaotic background. By the end, you’re profoundly startled—not only by the psychological wounds of Robert’s reclusive older brother, Charles, and his weirdo-ascetic younger brother, Max, but also by how much feeling Zwigoff has obliged you to invest in this clan.